Strawberries
by ghettos
Summary: He doesn't have anything to remember her by, except that final, bloody kiss, and the scent of strawberries lingering in the air. Slightly OOC Haymitch/Maysilee; oneshot -– for Booky, happy birthday!


**A/N** –– this is for Booky / Rachel, or Iridescent Bookworm, because it's her birthday(: Let's see . . . I first met you at the Fire is Catching forum, right? :D and now we're on so many forums together :') /huggles –– happy birthday, you beautiful, _beautiful_ person ^^

and I'm so sorry that this sucks so bad D':

* * *

_Strawberries_  
by **with wings of gossamer**

* * *

He's almost surprised when her name is called, because she never struck him as the type to take tesserae. _But with odds this high, anything could happen_, he muses, watchful of Fifilla Zayne as she congratulates each of the girl tributes in turn, then turns to the boys' Reaping ball. _Maysilee Donner._ He rolls the name around in his head, but all he knows about her is that she has a twin sister, and that her parents own the sweet-shop. He used to go there sometimes to buy sweets for his little sister Ashlie, and she was always there, either stacking up jars or packaging little bundles of peppermints.

The other girl tribute, Cleo Livine, is from the Seam, just like him, and looks like she has taken tesserae more than a hundred times in her life. Her face is scarred, her bones large and bulky, and she towers over Maysilee, who is tiny and delicate and frail and doesn't look like she belongs onstage, about to be sent to her death. He doesn't know why it bothers him so much, maybe it's because she resembles Ashlie, who is younger than her, but around the same in size and stature.

_I hope she lives,_ he thinks, but he knows instinctively that he won't. And at that moment, Fifilla calls the second boy's name.

"Haymitch Abernathy!"

* * *

Their mentor's name is Rogere Thinnard, and he's in his fifties, having won the 3rd Annual Hunger Games. With his snow-white hair and weathered face, he looks about eighty. _I wonder what it feels like to be him,_ Haymitch wonders. _Every year, he mentors two children and sends them to their deaths. And this year, it will be twice as bad._ He looks around the room at his fellow district-mates, who all have differing expressions. Cleo Livine looks almost resigned, as if she's prepared to die, whereas the other male tribute, Gildor Hollingsworth, is on the brink of tears, being only twelve. Maysilee, on the other hand, looks oddly determined, as if she's going to try her best to win.

"You're nowhere as fit as those Careers," begins Rogere tiredly. "You won't be able to outrun them." His pale silver eyes sweep a circle of the room, watching their reactions. "You won't be able to win them in a fight." There isn't a stir amongst the tributes. "You won't be able to kill them if you rely on physical strength."

_Why is he telling us this? What, he's giving up already?_

"So there's only one way," says Rogere, and if possible, he seems even older and more weary.

"And what is that?" Maysilee Donner's voice is cold and clipped, and everyone's eyes flash to her.

"You have to outsmart them," Rogere finishes, and there is a brief, sharp exhalation of breath from every tribute, until silence, cold and stagnant, once more settles on the room.

* * *

"So, Haymitch, what do you think about the Games having one hundred percent more competitors than usual?"

The glare from the floodlights is blinding him. "I don't see how that'll make any difference, seeing as they'll be one hundred percent as stupid as usual, so, I figure my odds will be roughly the same." He hears her tinkling laugh behind him, and manages to smile a genuine smile, for the first time in days. It seems almost ridiculous that they should be smiling and laughing in the face of death – as if they are daunting the Capitol.

* * *

He is extremely surprised to see her step out from the mass of trees, having shot a tribute dead just seconds ago. Admittedly, yes, said tribute had been trying to kill him, and yes, said tribute had almost succeeded, but that didn't diminish the surprise any less.

"We'd live longer with two of us," she says, pale brown eyes regarding him cautiously.

He drags a hand across the front of his face, wiping away access blood. "Guess you just proved that." She shrugs, and he almost smiles at that, but catches himself just in time. "Allies?"

She nods, and that is that.

* * *

The first sponsor gift she gets is a paper package of strawberries.

When she sees it, she lets out a whoop of delight, but composes herself and counts the number of berries deftly. There are fifteen in total, so she lets herself take one and bites into it, exhaling blissfully, extending the package to him. "Want one?"

He wrinkles his nose, but food is food, so he gratefully takes one and murmurs his thanks. She takes another large bite, and juice trickles down her chin, dripping onto the mossy path beneath them. "Oh, I love strawberries," she says happily. "We used to eat them back in the District, whenever we could, which wasn't often, but then again –" she breaks off and savors the last bite she has of her strawberry.

He sinks his teeth into the fleshy fruit; it's exceptionally sweet, obviously modified. Glancing up he sees her watching him longingly, and rolls his eyes before extending the remnants of his strawberry to her. "Here, take it."

She shys away. "I couldn't –"

"Take it," he repeats, pressing it into her palm before turning away. "I don't like strawberries, anyway." Then he sets off at a brisk pace, trampling through the undergrowth, with her calling after him to wait up.

* * *

The second sponsor gift she gets is also a paper package of strawberries.

There are eight of them left in the arena. _Around now, they'll be interviewing our friends and family,_ he thinks, staring up at the night sky while she unwraps the strawberries, the paper crinkling. His thoughts flash to Ashlie, and then somehow or the other her face shimmers and morphs into Maysilee's. He lets out an impatient sigh.

"Want one?" she props herself up on her elbows, holding out the packet and chewing on one. The scent of strawberries hits him again. "No," he says savagely, and turns away from her once more.

* * *

"There's only five of us left," she says, her face stony and grim. "I don't want it to come down to the two of us."

He studies the chasm at his feet, pretending not to care. "Okay."

And that's the end of their alliance, because without even pausing for even a split-second she turns on her heel and strides away through the long grass, not once looking back. He ignores the dull ache in his heart, because _yeah_, maybe he's grown fond of her, but that's only because she resembles his little sister, dammit. There's nothing more than that, except . . .

He paces back and forth, planning his next move, when he accidentally skids and his foot dislodges a pebble from the rock surface, sending it plummeting into the depths of the abyss beside him. He ignores it, until with a sharp _zap_ it's thrown back up, thudding against the smooth granite at his feet. Brow furrowing, he picks up another rock – this one about the size of his palm – and tosses it into the pit. Seconds later, it returns to his hand, as if it has been there all the while.

Slowly, he starts to laugh. And that's when he hears her scream.

* * *

Her precious paper packet of strawberries is lying by her side, her fingers curled around a half-eaten strawberry. Her eyes are wide as the pink birds all but vanish, and she tries to say something, but chokes on her own blood instead. He can still smell the faint scent of the Capitol's modified strawberries in the air, and his fingers find hers, curling around them tightly.

"Don't," he whispers, his throat suddenly dry, and he kisses her cheek roughly, just once, and she blinks up at him in surprise. He grips her fingers even tighter once it becomes apparent that she's slipping further and further away from him with every passing second; it's almost like watching Ashlie die, except a hundred times worse and real, very real. He holds her hand while she dies, and doesn't let go for a long time afterwards.

* * *

He watches Effie Trinket bumble around onstage almost boredly, feeling the dull throbbing aches from his earlier head dive off the stage. She's overenthusiastic as normal, speaking in lively, chirpy tones that remind him so much – _too_ much – of Fifilla Zayne, and he can't wait for this all to be over.

Then he sees her, amongst the sixteens, and his heart almost stops – then he quickly reminds her, _it's not her, you fool, it's not her._ _It's her niece, who never even knew her._ Madge Undersee looks almost exactly the same as her aunt did, with pale golden locks and large, innocent brown eyes. He thinks of her, dying in the fields, and him, helpless to save her. He doesn't have anything to remember her by, except that final, bloody kiss, and the scent of strawberries lingering in the air.

His attention is once more diverted as Effie Trinket draws a slip from the girls' Reaping bowl and announces in a clear, ringing voice, "Primrose Evedeen."

* * *

**A/N** – I feel like killing myself for writing this crap ;_; /is shot /dies

sorry, Booky D: D:

HAPPY BIRTHDAY ANYWAY AND MAY ALL YOUR WISHES COME TRUE!(:


End file.
